Friend, Foe or 'Freak'
by Thorn17
Summary: A possible explanation of how Sherlock earned the nickname of 'freak' amongst the police officers, especially Sergeant Donovan and Anderson, and how the nickname led to Mycroft making a life-changing decision on Sherlock's behalf. Pre-A Study In Pink.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: I've re-written this chapter with a few extra additions because I realised that I'd made a few grammar and punctuation errors, which have now been corrected. Apologies!**

"There was no need to do that to her, Sherlock, or to Anderson," chastised Lestrade.

Sherlock looked exasperated, obviously unaccustomed to being scolded by the detective inspector. Or anybody else, for that matter. "She was relentless, Lestrade. How on Earth am I supposed to catch this culprit for you if I have Sally Donovan's incessant whinging interrupting recall from my memory palace?"

Lestrade folded his arms, the word 'confused' practically dancing above his head to label the facial expression that Sherlock saw. "Your _what_?" Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but Lestrade thought the better of it and interrupted him. "You know what? Never mind. And Sally wasn't '_whinging', _Sherlock. I gather from witnesses that she was only trying to tell you that she is attracted to you."

Sherlock had raised an indignant eyebrow. "They're the same thing, aren't they? From what I have observed, suffering that has been caused by emotions, such as the aforementioned 'attraction', is a primary source of said whinging. And by 'witnesses', you mean Anderson. His opinion isn't particularly unbiased though, is it?" sneered the detective.

Lestrade chose to ignore that last comment and only answer the first. "No, Sherlock, they're not the same thing! Do you realise how hard it was for her to do that, to confess her innermost feelings to you? _You_, of all people!" Sherlock's only response was to scoff, and Lestrade belatedly realised what a stupidly naive question he had just put to the detective. "Actually, don't bother answering that. It doesn't take somebody with _your_ deductive skills to work out that you have absolutely no idea what I'm talking about!"

"Obviously."

Lestrade sighed. "What actually happened between you two, Sherlock? I know bits of it, but I can't see what you could have possibly done to cause Sally to file an official complaint against you. If it goes through, then I won't be able to permit your presence at future crimes scenes. This is serious. We both know that..."

"That I'm likely to relapse if I don't have enough intellectual stimuli, which will happen if I am prohibited from attending crimes scenes to solve things that ordinary people can't. Yes, yes, I _know_. Mycroft seems to have made it his mission in life to remind me of this daily." Sherlock waved his hand impatiently, dismissively. "I was simply crouching over the corpse, looking for all the clues that your team had undoubtedly missed, because you know as well as I that Anderson is the biggest..."

"Yeah, thanks for that," interrupted Lestrade, speaking dryly. "You've made your thoughts regarding Anderson quite clear. Let's skip the bit where you insult my team and I, shall we, and move on to what happened _after _that?"

"Sergeant Donovan kept trying to engage me in conversation." Sherlock pulled a disapproving face.

"How _awful_," said Lestrade, managing a little sarcasm before the incredulity seeped out. "Seriously, Sherlock, is that _it_?"

"No, of course not. Not only did she insist on bugging me with her trivial topics of conversation, but then she insisted on telling me that she had developed..." Sherlock shifted, looking uncomfortable.

Lestrade raised an eyebrow. "Developed what? Telepathy? Because I'll be needing to develop that in a minute if you don't hurry up and tell me what's going on!"

"Do I really have to spell it out for you? She developed _feelings _for me_. _Specifically, the feeling of attraction that you have already mentioned."

There was a short pause before Lestrade resumed speaking, as he took the time to gather himself before rashly saying something that would make the situation worse. He'd expected something a bit more drastic than that, but then he supposed that the younger Holmes coming into contact with a woman who had _feelings _for him _was _drastic in Sherlock's eyes. "You mean to say," he began slowly, "that you rejected Sally's advances - presumably through your normal route of snapping a scornful, unchivalrous remark - and then tackled Anderson to the floor when he tried to defend her?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "_Yes._ Well done, Lestrade, you got there eventually!"

"But I still don't understand."

Sherlock scoffed. "Not surprising."

Lestrade ignored him. "If that's the case, then why is _Sally _the one filing the complaint against you instead of Anderson? It was Anderson that you punched in the face. If anybody has the right to file an official complaint here, surely it should be_ him_?"

Sherlock shrugged, absentmindedly flexing the hand that he had used to pummel Anderson. Lestrade could see that it had been wounded, but knew that Sherlock would point blank refuse any medical treatment. "I believe that the popular saying 'hell hath no fury like a woman scorned' would be apt here. I rejected her, she wants revenge. I do It is irrelevant, anyway. Mycroft will see to it that no official complaint is ever lodged against me, or if it is, it will not remain on my record for long."

"It must be nice to have friends in high places," commented Lestrade, allowing a tiny bit of resentment to seep into his words.

Sherlock gave the older man 'a look'. "Mycroft is not my friend. He's my brother. There _is _a difference, though I don't expect you to understand, as it's clearly evident that you're an only child."

"How could you possibly...?" Lestrade began to ask Sherlock how he knew that the detective inspector had no siblings, but again realised that this would be another pointless question. He _was _talking to _Sherlock Holmes _of all people, after all!

"Now that you've finished boring me, forcing me to relive every dull moment I've shared with Sergeant Donovan and that idiotic Anderson, can I move on to the interesting information?"

Lestrade nodded tersely in agreement.

Sherlock smirked. "I'd deduced several things about your victim before I was so rudely interrupted by Sergeant Donovan bleating my name," Sherlock temporarily refrained from revealing his deductions in order to mimic the sergeant. "'_Sherlock, Sherlock, I need to tell you something that I'm afraid I can't keep hidden any longer' - _as a matter of fact, I'd already worked it out before she even broached the subject; I had just been hoping - in vain, it seemed - that she wouldn't mention it. As I have never expressed any interest in a relationship of any form, I don't understand where she got the notion from that I might be receptive of her advances!"

"Alright, Sherlock, calm down. It's over now. You said yourself that Mycroft won't let this get any further than it has to."

"I'm not a child that needs reassurance, Lestrade."

"Could have fooled me," murmured Lestrade, hoping that Mycroft's surveillance cameras were positioned at an angle that ensured it was impossible to lip-read what the detective inspector had just said. He didn't really want to be responsible for any smiles on the elder Holmes' face - especially not ones that were at the expense of his younger brother, because their sibling rivalry really was ridiculous - and certainly _not_ after what Mycroft had forced him to endure recently. Lestrade shook his head before the memories could come flooding back. His complex relationship with Sherlock's brother was best left alone at present for two reasons. The first being that Sherlock stood in front of him, and would be able to deduce what was going on between Mycroft and Lestrade instantly if the detective inspector was foolish enough to allow his emotions to become readable from his expression alone. The second reason was that Lestrade was determined to prove a point to the elder Holmes, but knew all too well that he would relent if he thought about Mycroft for much longer. "What can you tell us about our victim, then? After all, that _was _the whole reason that I called you down here in the first place."

Sherlock smirked, inwardly relieved to be moving on to what he undeniably did best. "Your victim was a thirty-three year old male veterinarian who, incidentally, had a phobia of snakes. They're not the most common animal for a vet to treat, and the man was perfectly happy to treat any other kind of animal, which is probably why he continued with his chosen career. Judging by the lack of wedding ring in a man who otherwise had no qualms with wearing jewellery, he was not married, but did have three biological children with his long-term female partner. He knew that she was planning to propose to him at a 'surprise' party that was no longer a surprise to him. He was trying to keep out of the way to allow the preparations to go ahead, which is why you've found him in a location that was not part of his usual route or activities. Therefore, you're looking for a perpetrator who was spectacularly jealous of this situation." After reaching the bottom of his list of deductions, Sherlock took a deep breath, not being able to resist one last snide comment. After all, Lestrade _had _been on the verge of sympathising with Anderson and Sally. _Anderson and Sally, of all people!_ "There you go, inspector. _Now _try and convince me that there's no positive correlation between whinging and attraction. I can tell you now that it will be a fruitless endeavour, given that - as usual - I am right and you are not. It's just unfortunate for your veterinarian here that this murder ended up being the result of the perpetrator's 'affection' for him. The only difference is that _this _perpetrator chose to expel their consequent 'whinging' through murder, rather than a good old-fashioned verbal moan."

And with that, the sarcastic-but-triumphant detective turned to leave the crime scene, knowing full well that he would be invited to another one very soon. Usually when he left a crime scene, he was accompanied by a series of polite goodbyes, either from people who were scared of him - and therefore felt obliged to be polite to him as he fulfilled their unspoken wishes and left the crime scene - or from people that were evidently in awe of Sherlock's deductive skills, and mistakenly believed that he would teach them his talent if they were polite to him. However, this time was a little different. Two voices rang loudly and clearly across the crime scene, earning a few chuckles at Sherlock's expense with their words.

"Goodbye, _freak_," chimed Sergeant Donovan and Anderson.

To all those watching, Sherlock appeared to remain calm, maintaining his typical aloof appearance as he walked away. However, Sherlock's mind began to whir into action again. It had only been one little word, one little insulting nickname given to him by two people that he already disliked, but it was causing untold devastation to Sherlock's fragile self-esteem. _'Freak'._ _Just_ when he had thought he had found somewhere that his skills could be of use, which would in turn cause people to accept him, maybe even respect him, he'd managed to mess it up again somehow. It wasn't _all_ his fault. From an early age, Sherlock and his brother had been taught that sentiment was a chemical defect found in the losing side, and therefore the brothers strived to permanently repress it.

This is what Sherlock had done with Sergeant Donovan tonight; he simply _couldn't _let anybody get too close. Even if he _had _been romantically interested in her - which he wasn't and never would be - he had already deduced that she intended to embark on an extra-marital affair with Anderson anyway, even though she _knew_ that he was married, so obviously his rejection had not been as detrimental to her wellbeing as everybody had seemingly interpreted it to be. Sherlock had not revealed these particular deductions regarding certain future adultery to anybody yet, knowing that they would be useful leverage or ammunition against Sally or Anderson if he ever needed any. Although Sherlock knew that Sally was probably only going to continue with her plan to seduce the more-than-willing Anderson in order to make the detective jealous, knowing that he would pick up on the signs that it had taken place, it made little difference in Sherlock's mind. As far as Sherlock was concerned, Sally and Anderson were welcome to each other.

As loathe as the detective was to admit it, this latest rejection threatened to trigger the darker side to Sherlock; the strong possibility that he would relapse back into his addictions, both the smoking and the drugs. Remembering the promise he had begrudgingly made the last time that the temptation to relapse had been great, and before he could do anything rash, the detective took out his mobile phone and text the only person that he had; his brother.

_It's happened again. Considering relapse. SH_

It was, admittedly, a blunt message, but Mycroft would understand what was meant by that handful of words. Sherlock saw no point in using many words when a few would suffice. It was illogical, and neither Holmes brother had time for sentimentality. Sherlock had barely had chance to put his phone back in his coat pocket before the text alert sound bleeped. Tentatively, he opened his brother's response.

**Thank you for informing me of the current situation yourself instead of relying on my surveillance team to do it for you. I'm sending a car to your location. We'll talk more when you reach the Diogenes Club. MH**


	2. Chapter 2

Mycroft put his phone back into his jacket pocket and sighed. He had just instructed Anthea to send a car for his brother, and she had already done so without asking any questions. It was one of the things that the elder Holmes liked about Anthea. She was efficient and respected Mycroft's request that she refrain from bothering him with sentimental opinions. There was no room for sentiment in his line of work.

Mycroft supposed that he should be grateful that Sherlock had informed him of his temptation to relapse. He certainly preferred this scenario to the one where his men stumbled across his drug-riddled brother lying in a gutter somewhere. What troubled Mycroft the most was the fact that Sherlock had been tempted to relapse in the first place. Sherlock's text message, combined with reports from the surveillance team that he had strategically placed around Sherlock, indicated that it was all the fault of two people. Two ordinary people who were now causing the two geniuses problems. It could not be allowed to continue. It was highly unfortunate that these two imbeciles - a woman called Sergeant Sally Donovan and a man called Anderson - were colleagues of Greg Lestrade. Mycroft highly doubted that the detective inspector would allow him to, shall we say, _remove _Donovan and Anderson, and so the elder Holmes would have to find another remedy.

Mycroft's sources had wasted no time in informing the government official that the woman had become 'attracted' to Sherlock, and though said sources could not given an accurate measurement of how deep or sincere this sentiment was, it was evident that Sherlock did not reciprocate at all, and had rejected her in what Lestrade would probably deem to be 'true Holmes style'. Unfortunately, instead of simply accepting the situation, it had escalated out of proportion, with the adulterous Anderson interfering in something that did not concern him, culminating in him forming an alliance with Donovan in order to ridicule Mycroft's little brother. They did it because they didn't understand him, and because he was different, and most people automatically assumed that 'different' was a bad thing. Both Holmes brothers had been social outcasts since childhood, but it never really got any easier to accept. The brothers had simply become adept at hiding the pain of their rejection from society better. Sherlock's emotional outburst tonight was admittedly a rare occurrence, but Mycroft still made a note in his memory fortress to chide his brother about it when he arrived. It would do his brother no good to reveal his feelings so obviously; it would only give Donovan and Anderson more ammunition once they realised that it was Sherlock's weakness. Ordinary people were undeniably unobservant, but a literal punch in the face was hard to miss.

Mycroft was more than happy to help his brother, even if Sherlock didn't realise it, but they simply couldn't keep repeating this cycle. It was unhealthy for both of them, with wasted time, money and energy being put into weaning Sherlock off the drugs that banished his boredom, only for him to be rejected by his peers whilst attempting to preoccupy his rebellious brain with a case, consequently causing him to relapse and take the drugs that would provide him with a temporary escape route from reality.

What Sherlock really needed was a permanent fixture in his life, somebody that could be there for him all the time, and defend him against the jibes that he received but usually did not deserve. This was where the Holmes brothers differed. Mycroft was perfectly happy to forsake all types of emotional relationships with other people completely - the only exception being his younger brother, of course - in order to advance in his career. However, for reasons that Mycroft could not quite fathom, Sherlock had always rebelled against the idea, professing to 'needing an assistant'. He had tried to get Greg Lestrade to fill this role, but the detective inspector already had several full time commitments - such as his failing marriage and having finally achieved the rank in the police force that he had always wanted - and therefore could not commit to jeopardising these things to be at Sherlock's side on a whim. Mycroft had admired the man's courage for letting Sherlock down gently and still tolerating him, even providing him with cases. This was how the detective inspector had first come to Mycroft's attention. Their current relationship, on the other hand, was far more complex than it had been initially, but the government official could not dwell on that thought for now. He locked it away in his memory fortress in the room labelled 'Lestrade' and thought no more about it.

Mycroft concluded that it was time that somebody was placed by Sherlock's side. Somebody reliable, somebody who would not be detrimental to Sherlock's recovery from drugs, somebody to keep his younger brother on his toes so that he did not grow complacent or bored and become tempted to relapse again, but who would also defend Sherlock to the very end. Somebody with no full time commitments or family that could interfere with Sherlock's care and protection. A permanent Lestrade figure, or something very similar. After all, his little brother deserved no less.

But where could Mycroft find such a person? He had numerous contacts, each with contacts of their own. He could ask them all for their suggestions, but this would be extremely time-consuming, and time was not a luxury that Mycroft had. He mentally filtered through them and found that he had one acquaintance in particular who might know somebody that fit all of the above criteria. A man by the name of Mike Stamford. Doctor Mike Stamford, who trained at St Bartholomew's Hospital, if Mycroft remembered correctly, which he always did. Mycroft took out his phone, scrolled down his vast list of contacts until he found the right one, and pressed the dial button. Doctor Stamford answered after three rings.

"Mike Stamford's phone," he said in a business-like tone, evidently confused as to why a blocked number was phoning him so late at night. Mycroft noted that Mike Stamford had not used his title of 'Doctor' when he answered the phone. The most likely explanation for it, bearing in mind that Mycroft already had an accurate reading of Mike's personality and life story, was that he was growing tired of being a doctor, and having done very little else with his life. To Mycroft's knowledge, Mike hadn't left St Bartholomew's Hospital in years. He had studied medicine there and then gone on to become a teacher at that same hospital. It was a repetitive job, doing the same thing in yearly cycles. This was something that Mycroft could not empathise with, as his job was unique, challenging and varied, and so the government official decided not to waste breath on forced politeness discussing the situation when it didn't compute to him.

"Good evening, Doctor Stamford."

"Oh, Mr Holmes, it's you! Honestly, what do you think you're playing at, phoning me at this late hour from a blocked number?" The relief that had flooded Mike's voice soon turned to frustration. Mycroft rolled his eyes at the emotional display, thankful that Mike could not see him do so.

"Apologies, Doctor, but needs must."

"Call me Mike," Mike sighed. "What do you want from me, Mr Holmes?"

"I need information."

"You _always_ need information. What specific information do you require _this_ time?" Mike sounded weary, and this was before the topic of Sherlock had even been approached. Normally, this would not bode well for Mycroft's request being granted, but the government official knew exactly how to coerce the doctor. Mike was indebted to Mycroft, and this debt had not yet been repaid in full.

"It is imperative that I find somebody who would be able to tolerate my younger brother for extended periods of time."

"Oh right, I see," sighed Mike before silence took over. Mycroft decided to prompt the doctor, not sure if Mike had detected the underlying request in his last statement. After all, ordinary people could be incredibly unobservant.

"Do you know anybody that might suit, Doctor Stamford?"

"Nobody springs to mind, I'm afraid, Mr Holmes. Sherlock has done a pretty good job of offending most of my staff and colleagues."

"Of course," Mycroft rolled his eyes again. Trust Sherlock to have already alienated the people who had the potential to help him. "Well, Doctor Stamford, thank you for your time. I'm sorry to have disturbed you. Good bye."

Mycroft was about to end the call when he heard Mike exclaim loudly, calling the government official's name.

"Mr Holmes, wait! Don't hang up! I think I know somebody who would be ideal. There's a slight problem though."

"You have my attention. What is the problem?"

"The person I'm thinking of it currently serving as an army doctor in Afghanistan."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Is that _it_? It's quite clear to me that you have no idea of what I am capable of, Doctor Stamford. Distance or location is no barrier. Transport can always be arranged."

"It must be nice being you, Mr Holmes. Having the power to do almost anything and everything at the click of a button." Mike sounded resentful at Mycroft's perceived freedom, supporting the government official's earlier deduction that Mike was stuck in a repetitive job and feeling very unfulfilled.

"It has its advantages. What is the name of the person that you have in mind?"

"John Watson. Doctor John Watson."


	3. Chapter 3

Doctor John Watson? A quick search through his memory fortress confirmed Mycroft's inkling that he had never heard of the man. Mycroft knew, and could recall with perfect clarity, the names of all his enemies, both within his occupation and his personal life. None of these people were called 'John Watson', and they were certainly not the type of people to be pursuing the traditionally caring role of a doctor. This 'Doctor John Watson' already sounded like a good candidate, but knowing so little about him unnerved Mycroft to a degree.

The government official could not profess to knowing _nothing_ about the man, because John Watson's title and occupation revealed a lot about his character. For example, people who had trained to become doctors usually possessed caring, loyal and patient personality traits. These were all desirable qualities in a person who was intended to be a permanent, calming influence on Sherlock, and it was an undeniable truth that a doctor would be very useful if Sherlock _did _somehow relapse into his addiction, or become injured in any way whilst pursuing a criminal on one of his cases.

However, because John Watson was also an _army _doctor, this indicated to Mycroft that the doctor had the capability to protect Sherlock from being harmed in the first place, which was even more of a desirable outcome. The doctor was likely to be physically fit, to have been trained in both hand-to-hand and armed combat, and to be extremely brave, meaning that he would adjust easily to Sherlock's lifestyle of chasing dangerous people through the streets of London at all hours. Therefore, it was highly probable that a man like Doctor Watson would be perfectly willing and capable of keeping Sherlock safe, something which Mycroft desired above everything else, but the doctor would also be unlikely to have any qualms about telling the detective when he had overstepped the mark. In time, this could prove to be useful, with Doctor Watson's placement by Sherlock's side helping the detective to progress, rather than just simply ensuring that things didn't get any worse.

"Hello? Mr Holmes? Are you still there? The line's gone awfully quiet."

"Yes. Apologies, Doctor Stamford, I was lost in my thoughts."

"That makes a change," Mike tried feebly to make a joke, but his efforts fell upon stony ground. It was painfully evident to both parties that Mike had chosen the wrong person to try and provoke any sort of emotional response from, whether it be good or bad. Mycroft was not a man that appreciated humour when used just for humour's sake. He didn't approve of anything that wasn't done for a purpose. Actions such as these were illogical, and a waste of precious time.

True to form, Mycroft chose to ignore Mike's last comment. The closest things to humour that the Holmes brothers would reluctantly acknowledge were witty remarks, and sarcastic retorts. "Thank you for your suggestion, Doctor Stamford. I will pursue the matter in due course."

"Oh, alright then. Erm, glad I could be of assistance...I think. Bye then," said Mike tentatively, not sure if the government official would be particularly pleased if he ended the call first. In the doctor's eyes, Mr Holmes might deem such an action to be rude, and Mike didn't really want to experience the wrath of Mycroft Holmes. Sherlock was bad enough, but the doctor had a feeling that his brother was even worse. It was a shame that St Bartholomew's hospital didn't offer courses exploring 'the correct social protocol for ending an awkward telephone conversation with a man that possesses the power to destroy your life in the blink of an eye'. Mike would have attended that class. Not only would it have been extremely useful at present, it would have broken the cyclical routine of his dull, everyday life.

"Good bye," said Mycroft politely, completely ignorant of the fact that he was interrupting Mike's inner dilemma, before ending the call. He didn't usually communicate with people by telephone if he was in a position to text them, but this current situation was complex, as was everything else regarding Sherlock, and therefore deserved more care and attention than other dilemmas. The nature of the situation rendered it difficult to explain accurately and effectively to ordinary people via the medium of text messages. Sherlock deserved better than that; he deserved to have his future decided thoroughly, rather than through a few simple text messages whose meaning could easily be misunderstood.

On that note, he typed a quick text message and sent it to his assistant, Anthea. Even taking all of his earlier reasoning about appropriate methods of communication into consideration, the chance of Anthea misunderstanding a direct text message from her boss was extremely low, as Mycroft would never employ somebody who would be incompetent enough to do that. The message read as follows:

**Need data on a 'Doctor John Watson' ASAP. Enter additional search criteria as follows; 'army', 'doctor' and 'Afghanistan'. MH**

Mycroft set his phone on the desk and waited for a response, estimating that Anthea would reply with everything he needed to know within five minutes. The car bringing Sherlock to the Diogenes Club would arrive in just over fifteen minutes, giving Mycroft time to evaluate Doctor Watson's suitability and set the wheels in motion for Sherlock to seemingly 'encounter the doctor by chance' if the man met all of Mycroft's criteria, by the time that the detective arrived. Sure enough, Mycroft's phone bleeped with a text message from Anthea just before the fourth minute began. Her reply read:

_Doctor John Hamish Watson, army doctor for Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, honourably discharged on a permanent basis over a month ago after being wounded in action in Afghanistan. Temporarily residing in London whilst finishing a mandatory course of counseling. Therapist believes that any remaining indications of an injury are psychosomatic, with Doctor Watson possibly suffering from post traumatic stress disorder. He has an hour long session tomorrow, starting 1pm, after which he will walk home via Regent's Park as usual. Will there be anything else this evening, Sir? A_

Mycroft responded immediately, thanking Anthea for her information and dismissing her for the evening, before digesting this new data. Even Mycroft himself couldn't have planned how fitting Doctor Watson seemed to be. People would be forgiven for thinking that the whole arrangement had been preordained. Mycroft may have had minor cause for concern if Doctor Watson's physical injury had not healed, or if he had still been posted abroad, but neither of these worries were relevant now. Admittedly, if Doctor Watson _was_ indeed currently suffering from post traumatic stress disorder, it might be unfair and unwise to expose him to Sherlock's demeanor and way of life on a permanent basis. However, Mycroft could see no impediment to arranging a trial run, briefly exposing the two men to each other and observing how they reacted. The sooner this happened, the better it would be for everyone involved. Mycroft deduced from Anthea's information that the risk of Doctor Watson's condition deteriorating after brief, supervised exposure to Sherlock's eccentricity was low, and therefore it was safe to proceed. The government official might come across as sociopathic or simply antisocial, but he would never endanger the wellbeing of another person without their prior knowledge or consent.

Realising that the ten minutes that had been allocated between receiving Anthea's text and Sherlock arriving were very nearly up, Mycroft managed to send a text to Doctor Stamford before the sound of his brother arguing loudly in the corridor with the driver of the government official's car came into earshot. Trust Sherlock to be early for something when he didn't need to be. Usually, just getting the detective to turn up somewhere that Mycroft wanted him to be was a bonus. Mycroft swore that his brother did it just to annoy him.

**Dr Watson is suitable. Be in Regent's Park from 1:45pm onwards tomorrow. When you see Dr Watson, engage him in conversation and find a way of mentioning my brother in a positive light. Do as I say, and I will see to it that your monotonous life is monotonous no longer. MH**

With the click of a few buttons, Mycroft had successfully orchestrated another segment of Sherlock's life. Now all he had to do was ensure that Sherlock never deduced what he had done, for fear of said younger brother rebelling against it and ruining what could possibility be the most important encounter with another human being of his life. Mycroft never thought that he would say this, but meeting his brother might be one of the best things that ever happened to Doctor John Watson, and vice versa, given how well the two men complimented each other in theory. Now all the government official had to do was to arrange a meeting between Sherlock and John, without either of them being aware that they were being used as puppets in Mycroft's well-meaning ploy.

For an ordinary person, this would be easier said than done. For Mycroft Holmes, it was child's play.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: I'm really sorry it's taking me so long to update my stories - I started university in September and I've been so busy with assignments! I hope you enjoy the chapter though, and that it was worth waiting so long for!**

This was it. At 2:07pm precisely, the man whom Mycroft's sources had informed him to be Doctor John Watson emerged from his therapist's office and began his journey home through Regent's Park. Doctor Mike Stamford had been seated on a bench in the centre of the park, meaning that there was no route that Doctor Watson could possibly take which would result in him not passing his old seated colleague. Mycroft himself was monitoring the whole scenario via numerous CCTV cameras in the surrounding areas. He also had radio contact with every single one of his operatives that he had placed out there in the park to make sure Stamford played his part well.

The doctor had been instructed to get Doctor Watson into St Bartholomew's Hospital between the hours of 2 and 7pm that day, as these were the hours in which Mycroft knew for certain that Sherlock would be holed up in one of the labs there, conducting his 'experiments'. In fact, Mycroft had even 'suggested' last night that his brother do so today in order to calm himself after the events of the previous night, to submit to science again and forget the emotional baggage that inescapable human interaction came with. Thus, this formed the perfect chance for Doctor Watson and Sherlock to 'accidentally become acquainted with each other', as there were so many reasons Stamford could draw upon to get Doctor Watson to the right area of the hospital, too. Even Mycroft - who had a limited but practical knowledge of the sentiment commonly used by other humans - could name at least three things that the two doctors had in common. Firstly, they were old friends. Secondly, they were old colleagues, and thirdly, a suggestion could be to visit their old teaching hospital in which they were both trained to do one of the things that most defined them. Sentimental values like these worked wonders when trying to coerce somebody into doing something.

However, Doctor Watson was an intelligent man, and - more importantly - he was still honed in to his army training, meaning that if he had the slightest suspicion that he was being set up for something, he would assume it to be a trap and react negatively. That was simply not an acceptable outcome. This situation needed to be handled with the greatest care and attention, planned down to the last detail, which - of course - was Mycroft's speciality. After assessing both the emotional and physical state of Sherlock last night, Mycroft was painfully aware that his brother was desperately in need of somebody that would not shun him for behaving in a way which was so inherently _Sherlock_.

Sherlock himself actually had many redeemable characteristics: he was loyal, dedicated, intelligent, and had a strong-if-sometimes-misguided moral compass, but people failed to see these things because they did not take the time to look beyond the younger Holmes' cold exterior. It was Mycroft's hope that Doctor Watson could be this person, this exception to the rule, and the government official believed it to be a distinct possibility after reviewing all the data his database system held about the doctor.

He'd read witness statements and transcripts of Doctor Watson's medical consultations, all of which testified to the Doctor's character being suitably matched with that of Sherlock's, but only if both parties would give it a chance. Neither would do it under coercion, and so Mycroft's scheme of having Mike 'introduce them by chance' would have to suffice. It wasn't his greatest plan by far - there were too many emotional variables that had to be factored in for Mycroft's liking, something which never needed any consideration in the military-style plans that Mycroft constructed for the Government on a daily basis - but it would have to do. It might not be the elder Holmes' most intellectual work, but if it worked then it would certainly be the one he was most proud of.

The headset in Mycroft's ear crackled to life as one of his operatives spoke, interrupting his musings.

"Doctor Watson has almost reached Doctor Stamford, Sir."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "I can see that, thank you. Maintain your position and cease communications on this channel, unless the situation deteriorates and my personal intervention is required." Why did people insist on telling him information that he could see for himself? It was a rhetorical question; of course he knew why they did it. The operative who had spoken was one of his newest recruits, an ex-police officer by the name of Gregson. The man had previous experience in the field, and was proving to be promising at espionage, if only he would stop trying so overly-hard to impress everybody so much. Did Gregson really think that somebody of Mycroft's importance had reached his current position by stating the obvious?

"Yes, Sir. Of course."

A calming silence resumed as Mycroft watched the interaction between the two doctors play out. Surprisingly, Doctor Watson agreed to join Stamford for a coffee, even though he was displaying all the customary signs of discomfort - his manner was irritable, he was seated some distance away from his old 'friend', and he couldn't stop the tremor in his hand which occurred when he was in need of some action, not a life of sedentary chats about the past. Bearing this in mind, it was clear that Doctor Watson didn't really want to be sat there making awkward chitchat about his war injury with a man who apparently hadn't even heard that he'd been shot.

Mycroft, on the other hand, could not be more pleased with this turn of events. Doctor Watson didn't want to be there, but stayed in order to be polite and friendly. His smile was fake, his interest in life a facade, even if Mycroft begrudgingly admitted that it a very good one considering what the poor man had been through. Regardless, the main point was that Doctor Watson _stayed _there. He _stayed_. If he could stay and sit through the tedium of Doctor Stamford complaining about his 'monotonous' life which he opted to do nothing about, then surely he would be able to tolerate some of Sherlock's more eccentric habits? The younger Holmes was not known for his social skills, but he was certainly never dull. Doctor Watson needed that - he needed somebody decidedly not dull.

Mycroft sat back in his chair and linked his fingers together contently, placing them in his lap as he watched and listened to the conversation between the two men evolve in just the way he had hoped. Conveniently, Doctor Watson had mentioned his need of a flatmate, and Stamford - having seen an opening here to do as Mycroft had asked - had suddenly been able to 'miraculously' suggest a man who was in the same predicament. With Doctor Watson's inquisitive nature having won out, the two doctors were on the way to visit that very man.

Little did Doctor Watson know that in the space of twenty-four hours, he would be inseparable from the man he would meet in less than half an hour's time. Sherlock would unwittingly arouse Doctor Watson's curiosity in him through that unusually charming way of his, and the rest - as they say - would be history. Neither would know what - or, more precisely, _who_ - had brought them together. In time, they would attribute it to luck, coincidence, chance and fate. Nobody would ever be aware of Mycroft's intervention, or of the fact that he had managed to put together two people who couldn't be more perfect for each other if they tried. This was exactly the way that Mycroft wanted it to be, and the way in which Sherlock _needed_ it to happen.

Sherlock and Doctor Watson - though Mycroft suspected that it wouldn't be long before he could retire the formal title and call the man 'John' instead - would be inseparable. More than that, they would be _amazing_.

Yes. Yes. Mycroft could see it now.


End file.
